I Am Distressed for Thee, My Brother
by Angst Is My Middle Name
Summary: "Sometimes, you get a powerful reminder of the frailty of human life, of mortality, of the mortality of the men you are closest to... We were watching when it happened, as the sun was coming up and bathing everything in warm light. One second Kobayashi was there and the next he wasn't." Notes Inside. Rated for OC death. Not related to 'Brothers and Sisters' series.


**_Wrote this a day or two ago after seeing footage of a firefighter falling through a roof in Fresno and this begged to be written. The Fresno firefighter, while I do not know his name, is a 25-year veteran of the fire department and did survive, though he has severe burns and will need multiple surgeries. Truthfully, I wrote this before finding the story again, and upon only viewing the footage, I was sure he died. Thankfully, as I said, he lived, being rescued in about three minutes. So, while this fic doesn't fit the exact details of the news story, it was inspired by the footage. Let's all keep that firefighter in our thoughts/prayers._**

**_Warnings: original character death, LODD, some language, 1st person POV, vaguely stream-of-consciousness. _**

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_How are the mighty fallen in the midst of the battle! O Jonathan, thou wast slain in thine high places. I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan: very pleasant hast thou been unto me: thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women. How are the mighty fallen, and the weapons of war perished!_

-2 Samuel 1:25-27 (KJV)

Sometimes, you get a powerful reminder of the frailty of human life, of mortality, of the mortality of the men you are closest to. Fatalities in the fire department don't happen quite so often as they do in, say, the police department. We don't have guns pointed at us on a regular basis. People don't usually want to stab us or kill us or hold us hostage. Sure, we run into burning buildings and crazy situations, but we've got plenty of men there to back us up in case something goes wrong. Firemen just don't die in the line of duty all that often. I guess that's why it's such a big deal when it happens.

It was a routine structure fire. Everyone on that two-alarm had seen dozens and dozens of ones just like it. There was no reason to think anything bad might happen. We took our usual precautions, of course, but the fire was just so straightforward. Teams went inside with lines. Teams went on the roof to ventilate. Simple. Easy. Routine. Chet and John were sitting by me, on the running board of the engine. Chet had eaten some smoke and gotten some soot in his eyes, so John was treating him, flushing out his eyes and making him wear an oxygen mask. A news crew was there on scene, filming us firemen and the fire. I figured we'd see it on the news that evening with some commentary about heroes and danger and all that crap: Selfless Firemen Battle Early Morning Blaze, More at 11. It's what happened. Chet asked me who was on the roof, and I told him. Obviously, he knew most of them, but one name in particular jumped out at him: David Kobayashi.

Chet told me he and Kobayashi met in the Army. They did their training and shipped out together and were on the same plane when they were discharged and sent home. The two kept in touch and remained close, and when Chet told Kobayashi he was joining the fire department, Kobayashi decided to join him. They went through the Academy together, but they've never been stationed together, only working together while on a scene or picking up OT at one or the other's station. Chet wore a smile while he talked about his friend, a smile I could see even under the oxygen mask. John kept shushing him, though he was smiling himself.

The two of them sat on the running board, alternately watching me on the controls and the men on the roof. Chet pointed out Kobayashi, said he would recognize him anywhere, his best friend, his battle buddy. John chuckled and told him to shut up again. I didn't doubt it. That kind of recognition was a learned necessity. You learned to figure out your crew from the way they walk or carry a victim or hold a line. You recognize body shape and height and how they wear their coat and helmet. I could pick out the men of 51s in an instant.

We were watching when it happened, as the sun was coming up and bathing everything in warm light. One second Kobayashi was there and the next he wasn't. He went through the roof, swallowed by smoke and a colossal fireball that shot through the hole where he'd been standing. If not for the fire, he might've been okay. If not for the fire, there would have been hope, but no… Kobayashi fell through the roof and a huge ball of flame blew up where he'd been. I've never seen it happen like that before, and I know I'll never forget it. I'll never forget that fireball. I'll never forget that Dave Kobayashi was there and then not. I'll never forget the way Chet screamed. It was raw and primal and terrible and filled with grief. My chest constricted painfully. You're never prepared to watch a man die. Never.

The radio explodes with activity, Kobayashi's captain at 86s shouting orders, begging someone to go in and rescue his man. Chet ripped the oxygen mask off his face and leapt to his feet. Even together, John and I struggled to keep him from charging headlong into the structure after his friend. I wanted to tell him to stop, that his friend was dead, but I couldn't. I could only tell him 'Don't'. Don't run into the fire. Don't risk your life for a dead man. Don't make us lose you, too. Chet fought and swore and yelled, but we held him. He had to stop struggling when he became short of breath, both from smoke inhalation and grief, his breath coming in wheezing gasps. John sat him down on the running board once more and worked to calm him, putting the oxygen mask back on his face and telling him to breathe, just to breathe. I returned to my controls. I didn't want to see them carry the body out.

Chet and Dave were the only casualties, and Chet's smoke inhalation was bad enough for him to be admitted to Rampart. John and I go to the hospital as soon as we get done our shift, bringing Chet a change of clothes. He looks miserable. I'm glad he's in Rampart because I'm not sure what he would do if he were home alone. You're never prepared to see a man die, but it must be a million times worse to see your best friend die. He barely acknowledges us, only answering John's questions as to his physical condition, but we stay for hours, stay until he's discharged. He needs friends at a time like this, needs support. I pray they keep the news footage off the TV, for Chet's sake and 86's.

They were best friends: Kelly and Kobayashi. They will ask Chet to be a pallbearer. They will ask him to participate in the funeral. They will ask him to say a few words, to encapsulate his love for his friend in a paragraph or two. I did it myself once, when my first mentor, Fred Llewellyn, died of a heart attack at a routine MVA a few years back. But I didn't see him die, not like this. I was wrong earlier. Chet does not look miserable. He looks dead, broken, blank. He looks like his world has ended.

Morton releases him around sundown with an order to rest and take it easy. He tells John and I to stay with him, that Chet doesn't look good, that he's worried for Chet's mental well-being, that he doesn't want Chet to be alone. We agree. We take him back to John's apartment, intending to keep him there for as long as possible. Chet and I sleep in the living room, me stretched out on the couch and him curled up in the recliner. He sleeps until morning. For a brief moment when he wakes, he looks like he always does, looks normal… but then he remembers what happened and why he's waking up in John's armchair and then he looks just as dead and blank as the night before. He doesn't even eat the breakfast I cook for the three of us. I'm glad we're off for the next few days.

I want to wrap him up in my arms. I want to hold him and reassure him and soothe his grief. Chet's the annoying, goofy, precious little brother I never had. He wants to be an engineer, so he sticks close to me when he can, watching everything I do with those big blue eyes of his, asking questions of me with a tone of genuine curiosity and quieter than normal. He's smart, much smarter than most people give him credit for. Even Cap forgets how smart he is a lot of the time, I think. I like knowing he looks up to me like I used to look up to Fred. It's nice. Something about Chet just makes me love him, and it hurts my heart to see him like this.

We're in Chet's apartment the night before the funeral. He's going to be a pallbearer. He's going to speak. I know he hasn't cried yet, and he ought to. Tomorrow might be easier if he cries now. I ask him to tell me about Dave Kobayashi. I want to know more about the person who held such a deep place in Chet's heart. I know very little, only what Chet told me the day Dave died and what I could glean from conversations previous. Dave was in Vietnam with Chet. They shipped out and came home together. They were best friends. Dave was Japanese-American, unmarried, had two older sisters and one younger. He liked to hunt and fish with Chet. I know nothing else about him. Chet tells me all he can.

David Kobayashi was born while his family was interned at Manzanar War Relocation Center, strangely on 6 August 1945, the same day they dropped the bomb on Hiroshima. He grew up in LA, his parents recovering financially after their internment, amassing enough money to send the elder Kobayashi girls to college when the time came, and they expected their only son to go to college, too. Dave had other ideas. He was smart, but he never liked school. He couldn't sit still or pay attention and barely graduated high school. He joined the army and went into construction and heavy equipment operation, where he knew he could focus his attention and expend his excess energy. Chet knew the feeling because he was the same way. They met in their training and got on like a house on fire.

Chet and Dave were shipped to Vietnam to work on infrastructure construction. Chet got in fights with anyone who called Dave a 'nip' or a 'gook' or a 'chink.' Dave fought anyone who called Chet 'mick' or 'bog-trotter' or 'fag.' They worked together like a dream, shared a tent, a foxhole, a bunk. They became the closest of friends, closer than friends, knew the other as intimately as he knew himself. They shipped home together, joined the fire department together, hunted and fished together, went on double dates together.

Dave liked rock music and folk music but not jazz or anything really pop-y. He had a voice deeper than anyone would expect, had a booming, barking laugh that caught people off-guard. He had a wide smile and brown eyes the color of topaz that sparkled when he was preparing some mischief. He got a tattoo over in 'Nam to commemorate their unit that he wanted to cover up the guy fucked it up so bad. He knew the best ways to cheer Chet up and make him laugh. He was a picky eater and hated cheese but could eat a whole pizza himself. He loved steak and hated ham. He hated mussels and loved mushrooms. Chet knew his favorite jokes and could get him to laugh almost at the drop of a hat. Girls and sometimes guys flocked to Dave and his confidence, his effortless good looks, his genuinely kind nature. He kept a cat called Momo, a calico stray he found as a kitten that he doted on.

That's when Chet cries. Tears start falling from those big blue eyes as he tells me he doesn't know what's going to happen to the cat. He tells me Dave loved his family and his cat and job. He tells me Dave loved him, too, and that he loved him right back. He sobs, tells me Dave was the closest to a soulmate he'd ever gotten, that something inside him felt whole when he met Dave, that the same something shattered and died with Dave that day. Dave had always been there for him, always cared about him, and Chet was there for him in turn. Chet loved Dave Kobayashi, loved him more than anyone, and now he's gone. He literally died in the blink of an eye.

I wrap my arms around Chet. I hold him close, flush against my chest. Chet cries. He sobs. He wails there against my shoulder, his face half against my chest, and the sound breaks my heart. I hold him close, running my hand up and down his back, burying my fingers in his curly hair and rubbing at his scalp. His body shakes and trembles in my arms, jumps and heaves as he sobs. I hold him close, his forehead pressed against my neck, his tears soaking into my shirt. I cannot imagine how it feels to lose someone you feel is as much a part of you as your own soul. I don't think I've ever loved anyone that deeply. My heart aches for Chet. He weeps and wails and shivers and trembles. I wish I could be more of a comfort. I wish I could soothe his grief. I wish I had the words to make him feel better. I can't. I don't. God_damn_, my heart aches for Chet. I hold him close.

Chet wears a brave face at the funeral, only letting a few silent tears slip out, his voice thick as he speaks of his friend. 'Friend' doesn't seem adequate anymore, doesn't seem sufficient to describe the relationship Chet told me of last night, but I don't even know if a word exists to describe it. The service is a sea of the firemen's dress blues, some green Army uniforms dotted here and there, all scattered among the black. The Kobayashi family are a portrait in stoic grief, pretending to comforted by the assurances that Dave died a hero, died doing what he loved. Such phrases are rarely a comfort to those left behind.

At the cemetery, Chet presents Mrs. Kobayashi with the flag that draped Dave's coffin, then returns to my side. He remains beside me as much as possible, though I don't know why. He cleaned up well today, wearing his dress blues well, wearing them proudly. Those big blue eyes are wet and almost glassy, his tears rolling when the pipes begin to play. My eyes are a little misty, too. I wonder if anyone here knows how close Chet and Dave were, how utterly devastated Chet is.

I take Chet back to his apartment when it's all over, and we strip off our stiff dress uniforms and pull on t-shirts and sweats. We sit on his couch. He cries again. He weeps. He sobs brokenly, as if his world has ended, has come crashing down around him. I suppose it has. I wrap my arms around him. I hold him close, but I don't speak. My words would be pointless and empty, just words with no weight. I cannot know what it feels like to lose a part of your soul, to bury it in the cold ground with no one knowing exactly what you've lost. I close my eyes and hold him close.

Chet cries, telling me again that he loved Dave more than anyone, that he wishes Dave was still here, that he wishes he were dead in his place. I don't. I don't wish he were dead. I tell him so. My mind's eye shows me Dave going through the roof but instead of David Kobayashi, I see Chester Kelly going down, consumed by a fireball. No, I don't wish it at all. I shiver and tighten my arms around him. I love you, too, Chet. I don't think I can ever love him as much as Dave did, but I do love him, care about him. I don't tell him that. I find myself rocking slightly, my fingers buried in his hair, rubbing gently at his scalp, my hand running up and down his back. Please stop crying. I hate to see him cry. I never want to see him like this again. My heart aches for him.

I close my eyes and see the fireball again, on hideous repeat, alternating between Dave and Chet. Sometimes, you get a powerful reminder of the frailty of human life, of mortality, of the mortality of the men you are closest to.

God_damn_, my heart hurts. I hold him close. Chet sobs that he wishes he were dead, wishes he couldn't feel anything anymore, not a damn thing. I don't. I don't wish he were dead… and I wish Dave Kobayashi wasn't dead, either.

My heart hurts.


End file.
